


Head Games

by LeetheT



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2367107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genre: Slash.<br/>Rating: Moderately explicit.<br/>Length: Just a tad over 10,000 words.<br/>Warnings: If I remember correctly, nobody dies or gets tortured or anything, but don’t quote me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head Games

 

_With video promo by Vysila!_

[Head Games](http://vimeo.com/105504395) from [vysila_vysila](http://vimeo.com/user32047804) on [Vimeo](https://vimeo.com).

_Link to video:_ [ _http://vimeo.com/105504395_ ](http://vimeo.com/105504395)

_Password to access video: MFU2014nsik_

~*~*~

Napoleon Solo stopped under the shade of the wooden verandah, patted the back of his hand across his damp forehead, and pulled out his communicator.

“Open Channel D, hemispheric relay.”

“Channel D open, Mr Solo. Hold for Mr Waverly.”

Napoleon arched a brow at the communicator. The old man must’ve been on tenterhooks – he hadn’t even had to ask to speak to him.

“Mr Solo?”

“Yes sir.”

“Are you and Mr Kuryakin in San Madrena?”

“Yes sir. We landed in Costa Verde this morning and immediately picked up a tail. We gave them a run for their money, then lost them at the edge of the capital.” They’d had to get physical with the quartet of bruisers from the country’s secret police, but they’d won; Waverly didn’t need to know the tedious details. “Then we went to the presidential palace, but Señor Alcantar refused to see us.”

Napoleon fancied he could hear Waverly scowling. “His enemies must have learned he contacted us.”

“That was our guess,” Napoleon said. “But surely General Villareal would simply have had us killed if he knew our intentions – or Señor Alcantar, if he knows  his.”

A pause while Waverly considered this. “Perhaps. The general and his cohorts may only suspect. But we still need to get Alcantar out of San Madrena as quickly and surreptitiously as possible. In any case, don’t go to him again. Wait for him to come to you. The boat will wait for your signal.”

“Yes sir. Solo out.” Napoleon put away his communicator, peering out from this shady vantage into the hot dusty street.

“Hey – senor.”

He turned to see three gangly youths, knives clutched in their nervous fists, spreading out in a classic maneuver that threatened to ruin his fairly equable mood – he wanted to get back to the hotel for a drink.

The youth on the left snapped something. Napoleon’s Spanish was imperfect, and in any case he suspected he was hearing some uncomplimentary and untranslatable slang, but the gist seemed to be _kindly surrender your wallet or we shall be forced to employ these weapons upon your person._

No time to reload with mercy bullets, and shooting them properly, though slightly tempting, would draw unwanted attention of the official sort in a neighborhood as nice as this.

The leader barked, “Apurate!” and the trio closed in a step.

“Uh, sorry, fellas, but I need it.” Napoleon backed away, hands upraised, maneuvering for the street where at least the chance of a witness – as well as room to maneuver – would solidify his chances. He preferred ignominious flight to a street brawl most days.

But the kids were apparently itching to take out their youthful aggression on any rich gringo unfortunate enough to cross their path – the leader snarled something and lunged.

Napoleon slapped aside the clumsily wielded knife and decked the kid, and the fight was on.

It was embarrassingly brief – at least for the three would-be banditos. Within about four minutes Napoleon was the lone upright figure, slightly puffed and rumpled, sporting a fairly long slice along the back of one hand and forearm and a nascent bruise along his left side due to a surprisingly effective kick from the last kid standing.

He used his handkerchief as a bandage, settled his suit on his shoulders again, and beat a retreat. The streets just weren’t safe for honest citizens these days.

~*~*~

Napoleon came into the hotel room to a surprising sight. His partner was stretched on the floor in front of the television – gun before him, within easy reach – absorbed in a broadcast.

From behind, Napoleon  looked at the screen for a moment, then – astonished – said:

“What are you doing?”

Illya didn’t shift a micron; he’d known, of course, that someone had entered, and that it was Napoleon, from the start.

“Watching a movie,” he said, not turning his head.

“Godzilla?” Napoleon said, coming forward to sit in the chair next to his partner.

“Is it?” Illya said, his tone indicating most of his attention was still on the screen. Napoleon watched for a while, said, when he was sure:

“Versus Mothra, unless I’m much mistaken.”

Illya turned, then, to give him a small smile. “I’m impressed.”

“I’m amazed. What are you doing watching this garbage?”

“Is there some other garbage I should be watching?” He turned back to the screen.

“Well, you should at least have popcorn,” Napoleon said, settling back in the chair. “I prefer Rodan, myself.”

“Auguste?” Illya asked.

“No. He’s a kind of pterodactyl.”

This time Illya gave him a longer, puzzled look. Napoleon waved him away.

“I’ll elaborate on the oeuvre later. Let’s watch the movie.”

“Your snobbery won’t bear much strain,” Illya said, returning his gaze to Godzilla and hapless model-Tokyo.

“Shut up or I’ll tell you how it ends,” Napoleon stretched out and relaxed.

~*~*~

 “That was remarkable,” Illya said, sitting up carefully. His ribs still hurt, Napoleon saw by his expression. The previous mission had been the kind both men intended to forget. Except in nightmares. “I had no idea such films existed.” He collected his gun, returned it to the shoulder holster.

“You’re joking, right?” Napoleon glanced at the bloodsoaked handkerchief and got up. Best to change it for a real bandage. He pulled off his jacket and caught Illya’s notice.

“What happened to you?”

“Oh, I had a minor difference of political opinion with some local activists.”

“Activists?” Illya got up and peered clinically at Napoleon’s hand. “Just how active were they?”

Napoleon draped his suitcoat over a chair and went into the bathroom, rolling up his sleeves.

“Well, they were fairly passionate about the redistribution of wealth – mine, specifically. I told them I gave at the office.”

Illya leaned in the doorway, watching Napoleon wash and rebandage the slice.

 “Any word?”

Napoleon shook his head. “Señor Alcantar is supposed to contact us. I don’t know how. If he’s being watched closely enough that our visiting him would be a giveaway, I can’t imagine how he’s going to get to us. But Mr. Waverly wants us to wait.”

“Since the police know we’re here,” Illya said, going to his narrow bed and sitting crosslegged on it, “they must be watching us. General Villareal has a tight grip on things, and he must know our presence has something to do with Señor Alcantar.”

Napoleon nodded. “It makes sense. Although Señor Alcantar has made so many vows to never leave his country, the general may think we’re here to exchange information rather than help him escape.”

“Or he may believe UNCLE is here to help Señor Alcantar plot and perform a sort of reverse-coup.”

“All two of us? And what army?” Napoleon shook his head slowly, considering the scenario – ridiculous in fact, but it might appear all too plausible to General Villareal and Alcantar’s other paranoid – and America-phobic – enemies in the presidential palace. The general had a vise grip on the military and the police, which in turn gave him a vise grip on law and order and left Presidente Alcantar as, functionally, his puppet. Though Alcantar had the love of the people, he now had no practical power whatsoever. And until he did, he was at acute risk for assassination every day he remained in the general’s clutches.

“Where are you off to now?” Illya asked almost before Napoleon realized he was headed for the door, his suitcoat hooked over one shoulder.

“To the bar – I need a drink to settle my nerves after that brutal assault. Care to join me?”

“Brutal assault?”

“Just because I was the perpetrator and not the victim doesn’t mean I wasn’t unsettled.” Napoleon grinned and Illya offered rolling eyes and a dismissive wave.

“Go. I’m having a nap.”

“I’ll bring you back an olive.”

“My hero.”

~*~*~

Illya awoke from his light doze when Napoleon came into the room. Cool afternoon air breezed through the windows, but the shorts he wore still seemed sufficient clothing. He started to sit up, but Napoleon laid a warm hand on his back.

“No, don’t. You need the rest. Go back to sleep.”

Illya relaxed back onto the bed, content that it was all right if his partner said so. If the need arose he could pretend he wasn’t still aching and exhausted, but, like a cat, he’d lie about 24 hours a day otherwise.

~*~*~

Illya awoke a short time later to find the tableau had not shifted. The breeze still blew gently through the open window.

“Napoleon?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?” He turned his head sideways to look at his partner, lounging in the rattan chair beside him, feet up on a wicker table, one hand holding a paperback book. The other hand was the issue; it still rested in the middle of his back, feeling like nothing so much as a very small hug. That concerned him.

“My job – waiting,” Napoleon said, not looking up from his book.

“Napoleon.” Illya added a pinch of exasperation to his tone, producing the desired effect. Napoleon looked up from his book.

“What?”

Illya glanced pointedly toward Napoleon’s other arm. “Your hand.” He realized belatedly that if he’d wanted his partner to think he was offended or angered by the touch, he’d spoken in an entirely ineffective tone.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows and Illya thought _What on Earth made me think he wasn’t completely aware of what he was doing?_ Mildly he asked, “Is there a reason it’s there?”

“Is there someplace else it should be?” Napoleon deadpanned. Unwilling to remain the only one off-balance, Illya deadpanned back:

“We can talk about that later.” He was gratified to see surprise splash into his partner’s whisky eyes. “At the moment, you didn’t answer my question.”

“I just like to know where you are.” Napoleon smiled faintly. “Did you want me to move it?”

Not waiting for an answer he began to stroke lazy warm circles on his partner’s back. He pressed a little harder, beginning a gentle massage. Sighing, Illya let his head drop back onto his arms, feeling his muscles relax.

Napoleon chuckled. “Any more complaints?” He pressed along either side of Illya’s spine, all the way up to his neck.

“Mmm.”

Then the hand moved down his spine. Slowly. Sensually. Illya sank his teeth into his arm to remain silent, but his nerve endings weren’t listening to his fervent prayer to lie dormant. Particularly … particular nerve endings, nerve endings that were paying particular attention to the attention Napoleon was paying to his lower back. And lower.

He could hardly get up and walk away now, even if he’d wanted to. His traitor body would make it very clear what he was feeling. Instead he took refuge in sarcasm, making his tone cool with colossal effort.

“Napoleon?”

The hand stopped, resting just above the waistband of his shorts, and he was able to raise and turn his head.

“Yes?” All kinds of questions underlay the one word – or maybe that’s only in my mind. He had to put a stop to this.

“Are you bored?” he asked sourly.

Napoleon genuinely considered the question. “No. Very content at the moment. Why?”

“If you’re ... in need of company, you could always go back to the hotel bar,” Illya made himself say, although he knew if Napoleon did, it would anger him. Hypocrite. Idiot. “I can wait for our contact.”

“I’m not interested in going back to the hotel bar,” Napoleon said with pleasant patience. “I don’t mind waiting, and I have no desire for other company.” He cocked a brow. “Any more questions?”

“Well, if you’re not bored or lonely ...” Illya said, at a loss. “What are you doing?”

“Thinking,” Napoleon said.

Surprised, Illya asked, “About?” Then he could have kicked himself for falling into such an obvious trap. _Your body is awake – a little too awake – but your brain is still asleep._

“About a number of things. This mission. The last mission.” Napoleon hesitated, a scowl indenting his forehead.

There. That was really it; Illya could hear it in his partner’s voice. But he couldn’t think of anything to say that was reassuring and also true. They knew all the risks, both physical and emotional. It hit them one way or the other every day, but sometimes it seemed to build to a point where some kind of release was necessary. This was a kind Illya had fervently hoped would never come. He could trust himself to not go there; his own walls were impregnable. But Napoleon had never had that kind of armor around his heart. _Assuming that’s the organ in question,_ Illya reminded himself brutally.

“And I was thinking about you. Us,” Napoleon went on, just as Illya realized he wasn’t being fair. He knew Napoleon valued him, cared about him. His voracious sexual appetites aside, he would sooner cut off his own hand than deliberately harm or deceive Illya, and Illya knew it, knew it as well as he knew his own name. Better. And that was the problem.

“Us?” he echoed, hearing with some annoyance the honeyed contentedness in his own tone. _Well, massages do that to me._

“Yes. About ... well, I was trying to imagine what I’d do without you.”

“Not very well,” Illya joked drily.

“That was what I was thinking,” Napoleon said seriously. “I’ve had other partners. At least, I thought at the time that’s what they were. Now I realize they were as good as strangers.  You and I ...”

“I know,” Illya said. They had a magic, something they rarely discussed, but as real, as necessary – and as ineffable – as the air they breathed.

“Then ...”

Illya tensed, sensing the shift in his partner’s mood even before his hand began massaging again.

“Then,” Napoleon went on quietly, “I was just noticing how good you feel.”

Illya clenched his teeth, willing himself to not move or make a sound. It was damn’ difficult. It would have been easier to weep.

“For a man with as many scars as you have,” Napoleon went on, tracing a couple of them, “you have very nice skin.”

Illya tried to say “olive oil,” but his voice didn’t seem to work. Although other parts of his anatomy seemed to be active enough. For one delirious second he considered going along. It was tempting, painfully tempting. But too much was at risk – not least their partnership. His walls might be impregnable, but if Napoleon stood at the gate and simply knocked, he’d let him in.

He turned and grasped his partner’s wrist  –  not hard; he knew that Napoleon would be genuinely hurt, as well as concerned he’d offended him – and said gently:

“I don’t think we should go down this road.” He didn’t release Napoleon’s arm although his partner made no attempt to continue or to pull away. He simply held Illya’s gaze frankly.

“May I ask why?”  Something in his voice pricked Illya to reconsider, but he caught himself.

“I just think we have two different destinations in mind,” he said. Napoleon continued to hold his gaze, opened his mouth, closed it. Illya felt him tug and released his arm, watching with some dismay as his partner visibly wiped emotion from his face.

“My mistake,” he said with forced lightness. “I apologize.”

“You don’t need to,” Illya responded. “I ... it ...” He shook his head. Anything more heartfelt would simply reopen the case he’d just closed. “You don’t need to.”

Napoleon’s communicator beeped. He blinked, reached into his shirt pocket and activated it. Illya waited, not yet ready to get up, wondering if Napoleon was as relieved as he was for the interruption.

“Open channel D.”

A tinny voice with a thick accent – their local agent, Heriberto Ortiz – said, “El Presidente Alcantar has made a phone call. He has a toothache.”

Illya watched Napoleon’s face, saw the penny drop. “Ah. How unfortunate. And his dentist?”

“Doctor Maniego, number 13, Carrera 50, second floor. Four p.m.”

“Thank you.” Napoleon signed off, gaze distant and lower lip between his teeth. Plotting. Illya liked Napoleon least when he was romancing a girl for the sake of it, like scorekeeping; it seemed ugly to him and rather an insult to the girl. He couldn’t decide whether he liked him best when he was down-and-dirty in the job, like this, or on those rare occasions when he turned boyishly, unselfconsciously playful.

“He’s bound to be accompanied,” he interjected into Napoleon’s thoughts. “Or followed.”

His partner nodded, glanced at his watch. “Let’s find the place, figure out the best observation spots and escape routes, and go from there.”

Illya pushed himself off the bed, not missing Napoleon’s quick, intense glance before he went to the door

~*~*~

El Presidente was probably the least interesting man Javier had ever had to guard. Obedient, polite, regular in his habits. He ate, walked, read, and argued with General Villareal like clockwork every day, taking time off only on Sundays – when he went, like clockwork, to church.

In a schedule like that, a dentist visit was like a birthday party.

Javier rounded up his people and told them off – one to drive, two to stand guard, front and rear, at the dentist’s office, and himself, of course, at El Presidente’s side.

After that small flurry of activity it was business as usual. Nothing odd during the short drive to the cluster of medical buildings that housed the dentist, no one beyond a handful of uninterested and uninteresting patients and medical professionals meandering about, and only one other patient, a man dozing behind his newspaper as he waited in Dr Maniego’s narrow, tidy office.

Javier stood at the door as El Presidente caused another tiny flicker of excitement – this time with the receptionist, who giggled and fawned over him as he checked in –  then sat across the waiting room from his fellow unfortunate.

It was only a few very boring minutes before the receptionist glanced in the back, got up, leaned over the counter and said respectfully: “Señor Presidente, Dr Maniego will see you now.”

Javier got there first, opened the door, saw nothing but a short hallway ending in a room containing the familiar chair and a dark haired man in a dentist’s white coat, beckoning. He turned and ushered Alcantar into the back of the office, shutting the door behind him.

Hence he never saw the other patient rise, lean over the counter, and shoot the receptionist; never heard the soft whisk of the mercy bullet that put her to sleep even as the other patient locked the front door, hopped over the counter, and came after them. Never felt more than the slap of another mercy bullet in the back of his neck, a spreading hot/cold sensation, dizziness, and then nothing.

~*~*~

As the agents bustled him out the back door of the dentist’s office, Señor Alcantar seized Napoleon’s arm in excitement, opened his mouth. Napoleon shushed him with a gesture.

“We’ve got to get to the docks before your watchdogs’ next scheduled check in. Otherwise they can close the port and we’ll never get out without a full scale battle.”

Señor Alcantar shook his head. “The streets are small and busy. Confusing. It will take us at least an hour to get to the waterfront on foot.”

Napoleon glanced at Illya, who shrugged. “ _They_ came in a car.”

They descended to ground level and crept through the alley around the corner of the building. From this angle the man outside the dentist’s door wasn’t visible, but they could see the black Lincoln that had conveyed Señor Alcantar here parked at the curb, the driver slouched in his seat with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Lucky it’s hot here,” Illya said.

“Por que?” Alcantar whispered.

“Windows down,” Napoleon explained. “We don’t need any shattering glass.” He looked at Illya. Either of them could take out the driver from this distance; getting a bead on the man on the mezzanine before he was alerted would be more problematic. The only cover in the plaza was a fountain in the center.

Napoleon said, “I’ll go,” overriding Illya’s automatic protest with, “You’re the better driver. Besides, don’t pretend you’re in top running form today.” He touched two fingers to Illya’s mouth, fully aware it would startle him into silence, and gathered himself for the sprint.

Deep breath. “Now.” He took off for the fountain, hearing the _whuff!_ of Illya firing a mercy bullet into the limousine driver’s neck.

He scanned the mezzanine level as he ran, spotting the guard just as he made the dive for cover behind the fountain. This particular guard, unfortunately, had quick reflexes – he got off two shots while Napoleon was in the air. He hit, rolled, stopped, braced himself and took aim, taking the man out as he raised his radio to his lips.

Then he felt the burning pain along his back and shoulder. He shifted, wincing. Nothing fatal, but damn. It hurt enough that he briefly regretted using mercy bullets on the man.

“Napoleon!” Illya and Señor Alcantar were there, scooping him up, the three of them running for the Lincoln. Napoleon bundled the president into the back while Illya yanked the driver out and to the ground, then they were off.

Napoleon pulled out his communicator and signaled the boat. The usual split second of “what if they aren’t there?” passed and a tinny voice crackled out, “What’s keeping you?”

“We’re on our way.”

“You’re not the only ones. Someone ID’d us. Radio traffic indicates General Villareal’s men are on their way here. What’s your ETA?”

Napoleon paused, hoping either the president or Illya could fill in that blank. After a moment Alcantar shrugged.

“A few minutes, if we’re not stopped by something. Or someone.”

“You get that?” Napoleon said into the communicator.

“Got it. We’ll stick around as long as we can.”

“Understood. Advise if you have to make a run for it and we’ll make for the secondary exit. Good luck.”

“Same to you. Out.”

He tucked the communicator away and scanned the crowded streets – crowded with people and carts and bicycles; theirs was one of the very few autos – but he didn’t have a good enough sense of the city to know how long this was going to take.

“Can’t you drive any faster?” Alcantar exclaimed as Illya cruised along a rare open stretch.

“We don’t want to draw any attention, Señor Presidente,” Napoleon informed him; Illya remained focused on driving, carefully avoiding obstacles but doing nothing extreme or risky.

Despite what he’d said, Napoleon found himself leaning forward in the seat as if urging the car to get there faster, but they reached the waterfront in a few white-knuckled minutes, and the boat was still there, bobbing at the end of the pier, two men standing aft and scanning the waterfront.

Illya parked and they got out, Napoleon holding on to Alcantar to prevent his running or panicking in some other way. He could feel the man shaking, with eagerness or fear or both. He could also feel the burn in his shoulder growing and the blood running down his back under his clothes. _Another suit ruined_.

Two jeeps loaded with uniformed men careened around the corner of a warehouse, speeding straight for them.

Napoleon pushed Alcantar toward Illya and drew his Special. “Get him to the boat. I’ll cover you.”

Illya, gun already in one hand, grabbed the president and started down the docks. The jeeps screeched to a stop and the men spilled out of them, spreading out and diving for cover, already firing at them and at the boat. The UNCLE men on the boat fired back.

Illya led Señor Alcantar down the pier toward a pile of boxes about halfway out t- the only cover between the car and the UNCLE boat. Napoleon, crouched behind the reassuring bulk of the Lincoln, carefully spaced his shots to provide maximum distraction to the guards, but he already knew this was a shootout he couldn’t win. He got into a brief rhythm – fire-fire-fire/duck/glance toward the boat/fire-fire-fire – for a minute or so before it became run or die. He ran, bullets zipping past him. Either they were uniformly poor shots or – more likely – they were aiming at Señor Alcantar.

The dock was slick with oil and fish remnants – he slid behind the boxes, spun – literally – and snapped off a few shots at the men in the lead as the guards converged on the pier.

He glanced around to see that Illya was all but tossing Señor Alcantar into the waiting arms of the agents on the boat. Napoleon took off, cursing as his shoes slipped, and raced for the boat, firing occasionally and more or less randomly toward the guards.

A flurry of shots followed, striking the bollard at the end of the pier where Illya stood; he flinched, a hand flying up to protect his eyes from the splinters, and lost his footing. Napoleon watched him jerk, flail for a split second, and tip backward, falling into the boat.

With somewhat more grace, Napoleon lunged for the stern of the craft, shouting “Go!” in midair.

Bullets still raining down – though the pier offered some protection – they went. He landed and rolled, coming to rest next to one of UNCLE’s men, kneeling beside Illya’s still, white-faced form. Alcantar hovered nearby, clearly concerned.

“Get inside,” Napoleon snapped at him. “They might still get off a lucky shot.” He gathered himself and bent over his partner as the small but well-powered boat roared north toward the United States.

“He hit his head,” the other agent, an older man named Reynolds, said. “I heard it. Ten to one he’s got a concussion.”

Napoleon tapped Illya’s cheek lightly but got no response. A check of his pupils was not promising. Heart in his throat, Napoleon slid his fingers with excruciating care under Illya’s shaggy head.

“Shit.” No blood, but one hell of a swelling.

Still cradling Illya’s skull, Napoleon settled in, looked at Reynolds, and said a word that, agent-to-agent, meant serious trouble.

“Hurry.”

~*~*~

Endless, endless hours later, seated in an UNCLE chopper thundering its way from Florida to New York, Napoleon sat numb in a seat and stared at his still, strapped-in partner, seeing all the things in his heart he’d been too coward to say. What the hell had he done, anyway, there in San Madrena? Come on to his partner, as if he were some THRUSH siren? No wonder Illya had spurned him – kindly, far more kindly, maybe, than he deserved. He knew his partner cared about him. You couldn’t work together 5 years and not get some clue, even with his stoic Russian. Sometimes he thought his partner even ... could he use the word love?

But that was unfair. Illya was a different man, with a different history. Napoleon knew his partner cared deeply. That indeed might be the problem. He would doubtless expect that Napoleon was interested in nothing more a novel sexual experience.

Napoleon grasped his partner’s forearm, anger and frustration welling in his stomach. Illya had to know better than that, damn it.

_And if he doesn’t? If he doesn’t know that he means more to you than anything, anyone? That you trust him, love him, more than anyone else in the world? That you are honored to simply be his friend, his partner – but that you long for more?_

Or was it that Illya, knowing all that, still didn’t think sex could mean more to Napoleon than the pleasure of the moment? Well, his history backed that up; he couldn’t blame Illya for being observant.

The Russian had claimed, more than once, and with justification, that he could read Napoleon’s mind. Nobody had ever known him as well as Illya did. He had to know Napoleon loved him. His rejection could only mean that he didn’t feel the same way.

Napoleon realized, after the pain of the idea pierced him completely, that that didn’t matter. He laid his hand over his partner’s wrist, squeezed gently.

_All I want is for you to be in the world. It’s enough that you are my partner, my second half, in so many ways. I want everything, as I always do. But I’ll take what you’re willing to give._

~*~*~

Illya opened his eyes to the dim bluish light that told him he was in the UNCLE infirmary. He sighed. It was almost like being home – if home were a place he really hated.

“Illya?”

His partner’s raspy voice made him turn his head – it weighed tons, every ounce of it pain – to see Napoleon seated at the bedside, rumpled, stubble-faced, holding his hand.

Illya squeezed gently. “Napoleon.” No matter how badly he’d been hurt, it was balm to body and soul to see his partner uninjured. He’d give Napoleon a hard time over the inequity later.

“Can you see me all right?” Napoleon got up, leaned over his partner. “Can you understand me?”

“I can see you. I’ve never been able to understand you.”

Napoleon smiled faintly. In his shirtsleeves, he looked haggard, exhausted. Illya was struck by a faint memory.

“I dreamed you were talking to me,” he said, his voice cracking.

Napoleon picked up a cup of water, held it to his lips. “I was.”

Illya sipped at the water. “I dreamed I was walking toward some ... place. In Russia. I don’t know. My parents were there. But you had hold of my arm. You were cursing and dragging me away from them.”

Napoleon set down the cup and grinned, sitting again on the edge of the bed.

“You kept talking to me,” Illya said softly. “And you wouldn’t let me go.”

The smile faded from his partner’s face. “That’s right. I’m never letting you go.” He visibly faltered. “Unless ...”

Illya closed his eyes. “Unless what?” His head throbbed fractionally less with his eyes shut.

Napoleon’s voice regained its firmness. “This isn’t the time. Rest. Sleep. We can talk later.”

Illya was already asleep.

~*~*~

He woke again near dawn, feeling somewhat better and eager to get the hell out of the infirmary. Napoleon still sat at his bedside, this time in a chair.

“You look terrible,” Illya croaked out. Napoleon got up, gave him some more water, sat back down.

“Is Señor Alcantar all right?”

“Yes indeed. Tasting the comforts of one of the finest hotels in New York, after having spilled a fair quantity of privileged information to Mr Waverly, the Secretary of State and a couple of U.N. representatives.”

“What did he tell them?”

Napoleon shrugged. “How should I know? I was here. I got the précis from Lisa.”

“Oh.” Illya shifted himself a little more upright on the pillows. Thin, starched and comfortless, like everything in Medical, to encourage them to get out and back to work as soon as possible. Well, he’d be happy to oblige them.

“Napoleon, I want to go home.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.”

“Napoleon.” His tone made his partner look seriously at him.

“I know,” Napoleon said. “But you have a concussion. You’ve been out for –” He consulted his watch and Illya scowled – “Two days and two hours. Not that I’ve been counting.”

“How’d we get here?”

“Helicopter picked us up in Miami.”

Patiently. “And how did we get to Miami?”

Napoleon backtracked further. “You slipped on the dock in San Madrena. Hit your head. Spectacularly, I might add. We—”

Illya held up a hand. “I get the picture.”

“The point is—”

“I’m awake. No IVs, no drugs. I can sleep at home.” He sat up, very slowly, and Napoleon jumped up to put an arm behind his shoulders. “You know how I feel about hospitals,” he said, trying to sound threatening. He thought the words came out sounding more like a plea, but from the pained look on his partner’s face, it was working, so he pushed it. “Napoleon, please.”

“Oh, don’t.” Napoleon sighed. “You don’t play fair, do you?”

While Illya was puzzling over that, Napoleon said:

“All right. Stay there. I’ll get your clothes and we’ll make a break for it.”

“Too late.” Dr. Baker’s voice, from the doorway, made them both turn. “The warden’s spotted you.”

The tall grey-haired physician, arms crossed, a clipboard dangling in one hand, stood in the open doorway.

“Why am I not surprised?” he said.

“It wasn’t my idea, kommandant,” Napoleon said.

Betrayed, Illya exclaimed, “Napoleon!”

“But you know how he is,” Napoleon went on conspiratorially.

“How _he_ is?” Dr. Baker sighed. He regarded them for a moment, raised the clipboard and took up a pen. “I really should keep you here another 24, but the spiked restraints are at the dry cleaner’s.”

The agents exchanged a look but knew better than to react otherwise. Napoleon moved toward the closet, watching the doctor for his decision.

“Someone needs to keep an eye on him,” Dr. Baker said to Napoleon.

“I’ll take him back to my place, doc.” Napoleon opened the closet and pulled out Illya’s clothes. Illya began a predictable protest. Napoleon flung the sweater he was holding and it hit the Russian in the face, silencing him. Dr. Baker held up one hand.

“It’s that or stay here, Mr. K. If your partner’s willing to keep an eye on you for a day, you can go. Otherwise no dice. I am authorized to use lethal force, you know.” He lowered his gaze to the clipboard. “Watch for dizziness, headache, bits of brain matter falling out his ears, sudden death ... that kind of thing. He needs to sleep, but you’re going to have to check his pupils and respiration every hour or so. Are you up for that?” he asked, peering at Napoleon from under his grey eyebrows while Illya slowly dressed himself.

“Believe it or not, doc, I have some investment in keeping my partner healthy,” Napoleon said. “The minute he shows any sign of being dead I’ll make him come back in.”

Baker lowered the clipboard and canted his head. “Do you see any boats moored around me?”

They stared at him, bewildered.

“Ah ... no,” Napoleon ventured.

“Then stop calling me doc.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the outside world.  “Go on. Get out.”

They got.

~*~*~

 The drive and elevator ride were almost more than Illya could take. He had no intention of saying so. But he found himself caught between Napoleon’s spare bedroom and guest bathroom. His body needed to lie down. His head needed it even more. But his senses and his spirit …

He turned to Napoleon. “I need to shower.”

Napoleon scowled at him for a moment, then capitulated.

“Leave the door open. And don’t look at me in that tone of voice. After all you’ve been through I don’t want to have to explain to Mr. Waverly – or to Dr. Baker – that you slipped in the tub.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a pile of deep red clothing. “Here. Pyjamas.” He tossed them at his partner.

Illya showered quickly and got into the pyjamas while Napoleon put fresh sheets on the bed in the spare room and set a glass of water by the bedside. Illya came out of the bathroom and stopped in the doorway to watch his partner turn the bed down.

Napoleon turned around, saw his partner standing there smiling. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re the picture of domesticity,” Illya said. “Who would have thought it?”

“Only for you.” Napoleon passed his partner, headed for the door. Illya could think of no comeback.

“Sleep. I’ll arrange for some lunch for later.”

Illya scowled. “You need sleep too.” Hand on the doorknob, his partner turned to look at him.

“I intend to sleep, as soon as you do. I’ll just set my alarm so I can check on you.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Illya groused. “I feel fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“It’s just the pyjamas,” Illya argued, looking down at himself. “Red isn’t my best color.”

“Agreed. Sleep. Call me if you ... if you need anything. Or if you feel unwell.” Napoleon peered at his partner. “Will you do that, please?”

“Yes,” Illya lied.

Napoleon growled. “Like hell you will. Come here.” He didn’t wait for compliance but instead went, took his partner by the wrist, and hauled him into the master bedroom.

“In the bed.”

Illya stopped. “Isn’t this a little unsubtle for you?”

Napoleon shoved him. “Go.”

Illya gingerly climbed into the huge, wonderfully comfortable bed, sliding between satiny soft, fresh smelling sheets and resting his aching head on a cloudlike pillow. Napoleon certainly didn’t stint on comfort in the bedroom. He watched, strangely nervous, as Napoleon opened the window a crack and closed the curtains against the dawn. The light dimmed to soothing blue tones and Napoleon went into the bathroom. Illya closed his eyes but his body would not relax. He listened to splashings and the like for a while, feeling his muscles slowly untense.

He opened one eye to see Napoleon, freshly showered and wearing brown pyjamas, come into the room toweling his hair. He paused to see Illya watching him, tossed the towel into a nearby hamper.

“For God’s sake, Illya, go to sleep.” He went to the bedside and picked up the alarm clock. “What do you need, a bedtime story?”

Without waiting for an answer he went to the closet, pulled down a forest-green blanket, and settled in the big overstuffed chair by the window, putting his bare feet up on the ottoman and pulling the blanket over him. He set the alarm clock and put it on the floor next to the chair.

“You don’t need to do that,” Illya said. “I’m fine.”

“Sleep.” Napoleon arranged himself in the chair.

Guilt tweaked Illya; he hadn’t exactly been a model patient, and his partner had been nothing but solicitous.

“I don’t want to kick you out of your own bed,” he said.

“You aren’t,” Napoleon replied, still adjusting himself. “Sleep.”

Illya muttered, “ _Chyort_ ...”

“Illya?”

“Come over here.”

His partner wrestled free of the blanket and came to the bedside. “Are you all right?”

“There’s plenty of room. Lie down. You’re making me nervous.”

Clearly taken aback, Napoleon stared a moment, then grinned. “I thought it would make you more nervous if I did that.” 

“I wouldn’t put it past you to have done all this as a ploy,” Illya grumbled.

“A while ago you accused me of being unsubtle,” Napoleon said. He went to the chair, got the blanket, and lay down with exaggerated care on top of the comforter, at the far edge of the bed, chastely pulling his blanket up to his chin.

Illya sighed deeply. “Give me patience.” He turned slightly on his side, facing his partner, who was a good three feet away. It was a big bed. Illya banished from his mind sudden images of the amorous acrobatics that had probably gone on in it.

Napoleon lay with melodramatic stiffness, arms crossed over his chest like a corpse.

“Don’t make me send you back to the chair,” Illya warned him.

“I’d sleep on nails if it’d help.” Napoleon gave Illya a moment to let that sink in, then turned to face him. “You sure you’re OK with this?” he teased. “Not nervous?”

“Napoleon,” Illya began, keeping his tone serious. “We’ve slept together many times, and it’s never been a spectacular experience. Quite the contrary. I don’t think I have anything to be nervous about, do you?”

A low growl from his partner’s throat startled him.

“Don’t provoke me, Kuryakin. If you weren’t an invalid ...”

“I’m not,” Illya protested automatically.

“It’s no good trying to flirt with me now,” Napoleon said. “My feelings are hurt. Just go to sleep.” He chuckled to himself and turned over. Illya sighed again, snuggling deeper into the sinfully comfortable bed. The unease he’d felt earlier was gone, erased by the simple comfort of his partner’s proximity.

~*~*~

Napoleon jolted awake. Something was ringing faintly ... the alarm. He slid off the bed as carefully as he could, taking the blanket with him. Why was the alarm so quiet?

Ah – a cushion he’d dropped from the chair was smothering the clock and its sound. Just as well; he didn’t want it to wake Illya. He dropped the blanket, shut off the alarm and went around to the other side of the bed to check on his partner.

He was sleeping soundly, slightly curled on his side facing inward, and Napoleon hated having to wake him. Then a delicious, malicious idea stirred in him. He went back to his side of the bed and slithered delicately between the sheets, shifting the bed and bedclothes as little as possible. He slid as close as he dared to his partner, wishing he could have his arms around him when he woke – that would really throw the stoic Russian for a loop – but Illya, like most agents, awoke instantly when touched. It was a measure of his condition that Napoleon’s slight movements had not already awakened him.

Napoleon watched his partner’s peaceful face, feeling his amusement at the forthcoming contretemps melt into a somewhat different emotion. He raised one hand to lightly trace his partner’s chin, cheekbones, brows, trailing his fingers into that silky hair. He was, in his exotic way, gorgeous. But that was the least of it.

Emotion lodged in his throat. How could he say to his partner – his cool,  detached partner – how could he tell him how important he was to him? How much more than a colleague, a friend, a partner, he had become? How precious he was to Napoleon, how beloved? He didn’t have the words for anything more substantial than his usual flings with the ladies, and those words, just now, sickened him in their emptiness.

He let his hand rest on his partner’s neck, feeling the pulse there, a little faster than it ought to be. Napoleon hesitated, then moved closer, kissing the golden skin at forehead, brow, the hollows of both eyes, cheekbones, trailing light kisses along his partner’s chin. He’d reached the tender spot just above the adam’s apple when Illya said softly:

“Are you trying to take advantage of an invalid? Or is this your way of checking to see if I’m still alive?”

Against his partner’s throat Napoleon smiled, said, “I knew you were awake.” He drew back to meet Illya’s eyes. “And alive, for that matter.”

“Tease.”

“Never.” Napoleon reached back behind him and turned the reading light on.

“Napoleon!” Illya squinted, turning his head away from the light.

“Had to check your pupils. They’re definitely reactive.” He shut off the light. “How about the rest of you?”

Illya turned onto his back. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I could find out without asking,” Napoleon threatened, sliding his hand behind his partner’s head, delicately touching the area that had hit the wall. “Does that hurt?”

Illya squinted again. “A little. Not too bad.”

“The swelling’s down. How’s your headache?”

“Fading. I’m thirsty, though.”

“Hang on.” Napoleon slid out of bed, went into the spare room where he’d left the glass and carafe, and brought them back. Illya was sitting up a little on stacked pillows, blankets down to his waist.

“Aren’t you cold?” Napoleon asked, crawling onto the bed to hand him the glass, then sitting crosslegged while Illya drank.

“No. Warm,” he said once he’d drained the glass. “Thank you. You’re a good nurse.”

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Do you want more?” He held out his hand.

Illya shook his head, giving his partner the glass. Napoleon put it aside.

“What?” Illya challenged after Napoleon’s gaze had rested on him a while.

“Nothing. Are you hungry?”

He shook his head. “Are you planning to sit there and stare at me for the next hour?”

Napoleon smiled. “I didn’t have any plans.”

Illya snorted. “I’m here in your bed and you have no plans? You disappoint me.”

Napoleon cocked his head. “Really?”

“I was joking.”

“Never let it be said I disappointed my partner,” Napoleon said, leaning forward.

“I’ve never heard it said,” Illya replied. “None of your ... partners ... has expressed anything but satisfaction.”

To his surprise, Napoleon didn’t smile. “I wasn’t talking about that.” The teasing vanished from his tone. “I was talking about you. I would never want to disappoint you.”

Napoleon held his partner’s gaze, earnest, affectionate, and again Illya felt that damned lump in his throat.

“You never have.”

Napoleon dropped his gaze. “Not even when ...”

“When what?”

He looked at Illya. “Are you bothered by what happened in San Madrena?”

Illya smiled. “I take it you’re not referring to the concussion.”

“This is important,” Napoleon said. “We shouldn’t have any falsehood or misunderstanding. Not in our partnership, not in our friendship. If it disturbs you, I have to know it.”

Illya shook his head, still smiling. “It disturbs me.” Just remembering it, realizing how close he was to his partner now, made his blood simmer.

Napoleon drew in a deep breath, looked away for a moment, as if composing himself. When he returned his eyes to his partner, the pain Illya saw there made his heart clench in his chest. His headache started to revive.

“Do you … would you prefer to not work with me anymore?”

“No,” Illya snapped, unable to articulate further. He sat up straighter. Was that what Napoleon thought? That he’d been ... offended?

“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” Napoleon went on, his face pinched. “If you feel–”

“I’ve been uncomfortable since the day I met you,” Illya cut in, wrapping a hand around his forehead. “ _Bozhe moi_ , Napoleon, don’t do this to an invalid.”

The bed shifted. “Illya–” Napoleon pulled his hand away, framed Illya’s face in his own hands, peering at him in sharp concern. “Are you all right? Should I call Dr. Baker?”

Illya shook his head. Then he slid his fingers behind Napoleon’s head, leaned forward, and graced his partner’s mouth with a brief but firm kiss.

Illya slumped back down on the bed, drawing his completely astounded partner with him. They lay on their sides, facing one another, and Napoleon, brow furrowed, eyes wide, opened his mouth.

Illya cut him off. “Not now. You pick the worst times for important discussions.” He pushed Napoleon – still in shock – onto his back and promptly pillowed his head on the American’s chest. He curled against his partner’s body, feeling that Napoleon was stiff, utterly surprised.

“Illya ...” he began, his voice almost squeaking with amazement and confusion.

Illya groused, “Let me sleep. We can disabuse you of your misconceptions later. My head hurts.”

He felt Napoleon’s arm come tentatively around him, felt fingers begin to massage his neck and temple. He sighed and relaxed against Napoleon, listening to his strong, flatteringly rapid heartbeat. He laid one hand on his partner’s chest as if he were a pillow, and in a moment Napoleon’s right hand covered his.

“Better?” Napoleon asked, his voice closer to normal.

“Much.”

~*~*~

Illya awoke feeling refreshed, his headache gone. He was also wrapped securely in his partner’s arms, with Napoleon’s cheek resting on his head. He lay still a while, wondering at how at home he felt there; it ought to have felt strange, but it didn’t. God knew they’d spent enough times holding one another through this or that emergency.

After all your intentions to not go down this road, he chided himself, look where you are. Now what are you going to do?

He glanced at the clock, saw that it was 8:42. They’d slept the day away. He shifted a little and Napoleon, without waking, obligingly loosed his hold. _A courteous bedmate in all ways_ , Illya thought, not without cynicism. Napoleon had had copious practice in being a bedmate, after all.

Feeling lightheaded, Illya made use of the bathroom, then wandered through Napoleon’s apartment, checking to see that the locks and alarms were all still set and unbroken. Everything was secure, so he phoned for Chinese food to be delivered before returning to the bedroom. Napoleon hadn’t moved, but he was frowning slightly in his sleep. Illya could hear the faint sounds of traffic coming through the window. He crossed to the bed, sat beside his partner.

A startling realization filled his mind, as if coming from someone else. How could he have thought for a moment that this man, this man he knew and trusted completely, could ever treat him as just another notch in his bedpost? The idea was a betrayal of his own self, and of Napoleon’s. Napoleon had never treated him with anything but respect, from day one of their partnership. And it hadn’t taken too many months before that respect had been tempered by an affection that Illya relied on even as he pretended to deny its existence. The Napoleon he knew could never – what was the phrase? Love him and leave him.

_What were you thinking? You’re the untouchable one, remember? Not him._

Illya reached out and trailed a hand down Napoleon’s neck, down to the top button of his pyjama shirt. He unbuttoned it slowly, carefully sliding the shirt open to expose one nicely muscled chest, rising and falling peacefully. He let his fingers trail across that expanse, flattening his hand on the taut warm skin just below Napoleon’s navel, moving it in slow circles. He felt the shift in breathing that told him his partner was aware of his touch, and wondered if he knew, in his just-waking state, who it was who was caressing him.

“Illya.” His partner’s voice, still warm and muzzy from sleep, made him smile.

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

Napoleon didn’t move. “Your hand ... is there a reason it’s there?”

Illya could feel his partner’s breath coming shorter, stomach muscles tightening under his hand. “Did you want me to move it?” he asked, fighting a grin, feeling Napoleon suck in a breath as he slid his fingers, just a little, under the top of the brown pyjama bottoms.

“Yes please.”

He leaned closer, both hands now roaming, teasing dark nipples that hardened instantly, proving an irresistible draw. When he stroked the nearest with his tongue he felt Napoleon shudder, and his hands came up to seize Illya’s shoulders, pulling him bodily atop Napoleon. One hand slid behind Illya’s neck, carefully – even in this state Napoleon remembered his partner was injured – and he pressed Illya’s mouth against his. His free hand slid under the loose pyjama top, curving around his partner’s back as his tongue urged Illya’s mouth open, delicately tasting him.

Illya groaned – or maybe they both did – as the surge of blood aroused him down to his toes. He drew his head back, gasping, tingling, to meet Napoleon’s eyes.

With a growl Napoleon pulled the loose pyjama top over his partner’s head, flinging it aside, and wrapped his hands around Illya’s back, pulling him tight against his body before running his hands down. Down, under the equally loose bottoms, each finger sending an electrical jolt into Illya’s body. He choked out a sound as his hips jerked involuntarily forward, and Napoleon purred.

“You feel so good,” he breathed, lips and teeth exploring down Illya’s neck. He opened his thighs and they slid closer, achingly close; his hands coiled around Illya’s backside, rocking them both. An involuntary moan escaped Illya as he grabbed Napoleon’s head and devoured his mouth.

Then Napoleon pushed him away.

Panting, Illya looked at his partner; dark hair mussed, eyes burning,  Napoleon held his gaze while his hands stroked their way up his back, fingers twining in his hair.

“You need to know,” Napoleon whispered, his voice grating with desire. “First.”

“Know what?”

The doorbell rang.

Both agents started, sat up. Then Illya rolled his eyes heavenward.

Napoleon turned over, reaching for his gun.

Illya stopped him, confessing: “I ordered Chinese.”

Napoleon stared at him, rumpled, flushed, and dumbstruck. “You ordered Chinese food? To be delivered?”

Illya nodded, catching his breath.

“And then came in here –”

“Yes.” He put his head into his hands, shaking it.

“And proceeded to –”

“Yes, yes. I have a concussion, all right?” He got up dizzily, teeth clenched, and grabbed a robe from the back of Napoleon’s door. The doorbell rang again. “I’m not thinking clearly.”

Napoleon got up, groaned, “God help me–” and swiped the robe from his partner. “Who’s the host here? Relax.” He threw the robe around himself, grabbed his wallet from the bedside table, and went out. Illya slumped back onto the bed, astounded that Napoleon was being so gracious about what was, however you looked at it, a ludicrous situation.

A minute later Napoleon was in the doorway, bag in one hand, wallet in the other. His robe hung open, revealing pyjama bottoms in a definite state of distress in certain regions. Illya stared at him, heart racing again.

“Do you want to eat?” Napoleon said with astonishing innocence and moving concern. Illya got up and stalked over to Napoleon, took the food bag and put it on the floor, took the wallet and threw it over his shoulder, and attacked. He yanked the string on the pyjama bottoms and pulled them to the floor, shoved the robe off those broad shoulders and slid his body up against the taller man, flesh to flesh.

Napoleon growled and wrapped his arms around his partner, lifting him, carrying him to the bed where he laid him gently on the comforter and knelt above him, looking him over with eyes darkened to blackness by desire.

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice a low purr, as one hand undid the string to Illya’s pyjamas and slid them downward. He ran his hand lightly over Illya’s erection, and the Russian’s hips jumped.  “This is important.”

Illya, hands fisted in the comforter, closed his eyes, gasped, “I can’t think ... when you’re doing that.”

Napoleon stopped. “Just wanted to get your attention.”

Illya forced his eyes open, panting through clenched teeth, trying to focus through the buzzing of every nerve in his body. “You have it,” he managed to say.

“This is not some fling, some novelty.”

“I know that,” Illya replied, amazed and touched that Napoleon could be concerned about his feelings at a time like this. He also thought this could have waited until afterward. That in mind, he reached up to run his hands along that hard chest, around to those round, taut buttocks. Napoleon gritted his own teeth as his body instinctively moved closer to Illya’s, but he stopped himself.

“This also isn’t about putting some .... notch in my bedpost.” He smiled faintly, and his tone became almost conversational. “Even though it would be quite a notch. I’d be the envy of all the women and quite a few of the men at work.”

“Napoleon ...” Illya used brute force, and a little english, to pull his partner’s body against his, sliding their erections along one another. Napoleon buried his face in his partner’s neck, gasping out something unintelligible, then – with a quick bite to his shoulder – lifted himself up to look at his partner again. He was panting, flushed, eyes glittering.

“Not yet.” He touched Illya’s mouth with his hand, stroking his lips, his chin. “You know that I would never hurt you ...”

“Napoleon,” Illya breathed, exasperated. “I know that. But right now, you’re killing me.” He pulled his head down into a teasing kiss, whispered, “Remember, I can read your mind. I know all this.”

“Really?” Napoleon kissed him, deeply, a ravishing, thought-blinding kiss, then drew back to meet his eyes again. “Do you know that I love you?” He didn’t wait for Illya’s astonishment, but kissed him again. “That I’ve loved you for a long time?” Another fierce kiss. “That you are damn’ near everything to me?”

Illya stopped him, grabbing his head, holding him where he could read the truth of those incredible words in Napoleon’s eyes. Thanks to occasional necessary surveillance, he’d heard Napoleon’s pillow talk more than once. It was good, to be sure, sexy and affectionate, always the right thing. But Illya didn’t remember any of these words or phrases coming into play in any of those situations. Napoleon had used the word love, seemingly freely, but never in any way that could be interpreted as lasting. Not like this. And he knew Napoleon would not lie to him. Certainly not to get laid; not for any reason. That left only the possibility that it was the truth.

“Napoleon ...” he said, stunned.

“So you can’t really read my mind, can you?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Illya began, immediately knowing it was the wrong thing to say and cursing himself for it, for being unable, even now, to simply say what he felt, what he’d long felt. Surprisingly, though, Napoleon only smiled.

“You don’t have to say anything. I know you better than you think.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Napoleon’s hands began to wander again; his hips thrust lightly against Illya’s. The Russian clenched his jaw against the delirious sensation, clutching at Napoleon’s ass to bring them closer. Napoleon slid his hands into a comparable position, until they were tight against one another, hot and slick. He started rocking slowly, smiling at the whimpers that accompanied his partner’s every exhalation. He said into Illya’s ear, between his own gasps:

“I may not be able to read your mind ... but I know you. You don’t do anything casually. You wouldn’t be here ... if you didn’t love me. Nothing I said or did ... could get you here otherwise.”

Illya snarled, “ _Zanoschivyj_ ...” and sank his teeth into Napoleon’s shoulder, just shy of breaking the warm skin there.

“Hey ... did you just call me conceited?”  He slid his body down his partner’s, trailing tongue and teeth along that taut, sweat-slickened torso. “Well, maybe I am.” He slid his fingers around Illya’s swollen cock and the Russian jumped. “I am awfully good.” He bent swiftly to take the head in his mouth.

“Napoleon!” Illya nearly leaped from the bed at the exquisite torture of that mouth wrapped hot around him. He clutched at his partner’s hair, blurting exclamations.

Napoleon raised his head, licked his lips. “I see you revert to your native tongue at moments of ... stress.” He dipped his head again for a long, torturous lick. Then: “Ah. That word I think I recognized. But God won’t help you now, my friend. I am all you have.”

Napoleon swallowed him, deep and hard, and Illya fell back, letting himself just _feel_ , reveling in the scent and feel and touch of Napoleon as he was expertly sucked to climax. After, panting and sweating, that expertise did needle some questions into his brain, damn it, but when he raised his head, the look on Napoleon’s face silenced doubt. A look he couldn’t define, at first, except that he’d not seen it before. Glowing with sweat, hair tousled, yes, smiling, eyes a little wild, even that he’d seen before … but something in the look, something – _that was it._ And no wonder he hadn’t recognized it.

Something open. Vulnerable.

 _Love_.

Overwhelmed, Illya reached out, stroked Napoleon’s face, jaw, neck, drank in that expression of need and connection that somehow said so much more than any physical act. “Napoleon …”

A pleased, questioning purr was his only response. Balance – or self-defense – reasserted itself, and Illya said:

“I don’t need God. If I have you, I have all I need.”

~*~*~

Napoleon stared at Illya for one naked second; he broke before Illya did, a snort of laughter tempered with a smile, a smile meaning to say that he understood. Understood that Illya had heard him, understood what Illya could and couldn’t say, and what he meant by all of it.

“You know, I _almost_ fell for that.” He grabbed his partner by the neck and shook him, and then Illya _did_ surprise him by drawing him into a hard, full-body hug, as affectionate as it was sexual. Eyes prickling – _at this, of all things!_ – Napoleon held on in turn.

Into his ear Illya said, muffled, “You may fall, if you like. I will always catch you, just as you always catch me.”

Napoleon gave him a squeeze, knowing no words were needed.

The End

**Works inspired by this one:**

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